All four returned to the base. In the briefing room, they sat on chairs while soldiers stood opposite them alongside Andok. He held a tablet, slowly scrolling through the report.

  “This is already your second failed mission,” he said without sympathy. “The target was supposed to be captured alive. Injured was acceptable. Dead was absolutely not.”

  Namkhai was the first to snap.

  “This is our new leader’s fault,” he nodded toward Phobos. “And yours too, technically. You’re the one who appointed him.”

  Phobos didn’t even look at him.

  “I’m an assassin. I’m hired to eliminate targets, not lure them out and put them in cages.”

  “Then why did you accept the promotion?” Andok asked coldly.

  A brief silence fell over the room.

  1991 remained quiet, shifting his gaze from one to the other.

  Phobos calmly raised his eyes to Andok.

  “Because I didn’t have a choice,” he replied.

  Andok slowly looked over all of them.

  “On the previous mission, you lost the target. On this one, you eliminated it. The result is the same: failure.”

  Dalila sat there indifferently, hands clasped on her knees.

  “The next mission,” Andok continued, “will be decisive. If you fail again, there will be serious consequences. Including a full revision of all your contracts.”

  Sector 13 - the place where the poorest layers of society gather. The so-called outsiders beings not native to this world, unable to adapt to life among humans. Only here, in Sector 13, can these hopeless creatures find something even remotely resembling work.

  The largest and most important factories and mines of the state of “World” are located in this sector. Naturally, because of this, crime and lawlessness flourish here more than anywhere else not only among the residents, but also among the enforcers of the law, who harbor a particular hostility toward outsiders.

  In one of these mines worked an outsider an ordinary laborer. Tall, powerfully built, with four arms perfectly suited for such work. He could dig out a tunnel in a matter of minutes and still find time to help others for example, an old man who struggled to advance while carving out yet another passage.

  The old man had barely managed to finish his quota when the four-armed giant approached him.

  “Let me give you a hand, Urzil,” he said.

  “Oh, Garrat… I was afraid I wouldn’t finish before the end of the shift and they’d fine me.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll make it,” he replied.

  Thanks to his strength, Garrat quickly completed the old man’s work.

  “As always, you finish everything in seconds, Garrat. I owe you so many times over already,” the old man said, lifting his tool to carry it back to the base.

  “Don’t burden yourself with that. It’s my choice,” Garrat answered, shaking dust from his palms.

  “Heh, don’t downplay what you do. I’ll repay you somehow for all this help…” The old man glanced at the tunnel Garrat had dug. “Well then, shall we head to assembly?”

  Garrat rose to his feet.

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  As they exited the mine, a long, droning sound echoed across the entire industrial zone. It was the signal marking the end of the shift — everyone had to stop working and head to the assembly point to report.

  “I’m so sick of that noise… Like we’re some kind of dogs,” the old man muttered.

  “I don’t doubt that humans think of us exactly like that,” Garrat replied calmly.

  “Dogs? Those bastards don’t beat dogs for no reason or hate them with all their souls. We’re worse than cockroaches to them.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “You’re exaggerating, Urzil. And you shouldn’t talk about this so openly. If the wrong person hears you, there’ll be trouble.”

  “Oh, right, Garrat, sorry. The last thing I need is for you to get into trouble because of me. But don’t you feel any resentment? Any anger toward them?”

  “Toward humans?” Garrat shifted his gaze to the nearby buildings. On the doors, signs were clearly visible: some for humans, others for outsiders. Locker rooms, cafeterias, toilets - everything separated. “I’m not going to defend them, much less justify them. But this is their world, and they were lucky enough to rule it. I don’t want problems. I have food and a roof over my head. The rest isn’t that important.”

  “Heh, Garrat… Is that really all you need? A place to eat and sleep? Where are your ambitions? Your goals? You’re young. Why don’t you want to fight like the others?”

  “I had enough fighting for survival when I was a child,” he answered quietly.

  They lined up with the other workers. After roll call, Garrat headed toward the locker room for outsiders.

  After changing, he stepped outside and began walking home.

  Sector 13 - a labor zone filled with factories and mines. The poorest district of the state. Narrow streets, gray smoke, piles of garbage. Among them stood houses where outsiders of all shapes and species lived.

  Garrat walked down the main avenue and noticed a crowd of outsiders ahead. They stood tightly packed, shouting loudly. Another strike - demands for equal rights and an end to human oppression were growing louder.

  Garrat didn’t care. He didn’t believe such demonstrations could change his fate or the state itself. He cast them a sideways glance and thought it was one of the most useless activities imaginable they’d be better off going to work.

  Suddenly, something caught his eye: a red glove. Instead of five fingers, it had seven. He picked it up.

  “How beautiful,” flashed through his mind.

  “Oh, you found my glove,” a voice said beside him.

  He turned his head and saw a young girl with long red hair.

  “Ah?..” was all he managed to say.

  “What? Oh, I understand.” She raised her hand and showed her palm. It had seven fingers. “Don’t worry, it really is mine. The proof is right in front of you,” she said with a smile.

  “Y-yes... here,” he handed it to her.

  “Thank you. It must look strange. I knitted it myself.”

  “Who am I to judge? I’ve got four arms,” he replied awkwardly, lifting them slightly.

  “Oh.. right, I didn’t even notice at first. Sorry.”

  “For what? They’re just normal arms,” he said, lowering them shyly.

  A brief silence followed.

  “I haven’t seen you before. Is this your first strike?” she asked with a faint smile.

  “No. I don’t attend these events.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want trouble. You can lose your job because of things like this.”

  “So you’re a worker…”

  “Of course. You can’t survive without work these days,” he glanced at her red gloves. “You could earn money knitting things like that for other outsiders. It’s hard for many of them to find proper clothes.”

  She chuckled softly.

  “We’re not fighting only because of unemployment. We’re humiliated as beings. Used like cattle and trash. We can’t just turn a blind eye to that. Don’t you agree?”

  “Whether I agree or not won’t change anything.”

  “Don’t say that. Everything can be changed if you truly want it and try.”

  He sighed.

  “I wish I had that kind of optimism… What’s your name?”

  “Kerra. And yours?”

  “Garrat.”

  “Well then, Garrat, if you change your mind - I’ll be here. Come anytime. If your job allows it, of course.”

  He gave a faint smile.

  “Alright… Kerra.”

  He continued on his way home, while she returned to the crowd.

  Finally, Garrat reached his small room. He stepped inside, ate something, and walked over to the bedroom, opening the window. Then he lay down on the bed.

  “What a strange day…”

  He ran through everything that had happened in his mind: the conversation with the old man, the encounter with the new acquaintance, their words.

  “No. The main thing is food and a roof over my head. Everything else really doesn’t matter.”

  Suddenly, cries rang out from the street. Garrat got up and looked out the window. Soldiers were dragging an outsider - a man with bluish skin out of the neighboring building and beating him on the ground. Then a woman ran out, shouting for them to stop, insisting he hadn’t done anything. One of the soldiers hit her in response, and she too was shoved into a vehicle.

  Garrat frowned.

  “Fool. Would’ve been better off staying quiet,” he thought and closed the window.

  The next day he left his home. He passed the same building from which the outsiders had been dragged the day before. Then he walked past the area where the strike had taken place. Now it was empty just scattered trash and debris.

  Among the rubbish, he noticed a familiar flash of red.

  The same glove.

  He picked it up and looked around; the streets were empty. Hesitating for a moment, he put the glove in his pocket.

  “Maybe I’ll see her again and return it,” he thought.

  He knew the protest had just been dispersed. The strikers were probably beaten or worse.

  Garrat arrived at work. Entering the locker room, he changed into his uniform. Taking the red glove from his pocket, he stared at it for a while. Then, gathering himself, he carefully hid it in his inner pocket and stepped out into the industrial zone.

  Suddenly, he noticed a crowd of outsider workers. They had surrounded something, and screams were coming from the center. Garrat rushed over and saw soldiers beating the old man, Urzil, while the manager stood nearby.

  “What?! What’s going on here?!” Garrat lunged forward, but his colleagues grabbed him.

  “Garrat, stop! The old man got himself into this he went into their restroom!”

  “And that’s a reason to beat him?!”

  He broke free from their grip. At that moment, the red glove fell from his uniform. Seeing it on the ground while simultaneously watching Urzil being beaten, Garrat seemed to lose control.

  He shouted and, finally breaking free, ran at the soldier. The blow was so strong the helmet cracked. The manager panicked and tried to back away, but Garrat caught him. Grabbing him, he threw him to the ground and started hitting again and again - until the face was a bloody mess.

  Breathing heavily, he finally stopped.

  Garrat looked around. His hands and clothes were covered in blood. Outsiders stood frozen in shock. Urzil, still sitting on the ground, stared at him with wide eyes.

  “G-Garrat?”

  “Goddamn it.....”